


Catulus

by Tseecka



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen, Loss of Identity, Lost Memories, Slavery, Slight Dub-Con Mention, orgies and decadence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-07
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-23 22:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1582094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tseecka/pseuds/Tseecka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They had been friends--more than friends, they had been lovers--but even without that assurance, Fenris would never have expected Hawke to give him up to the magister. It is a blessing that in his new, old life, he can't remember a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catulus

**Author's Note:**

> If you give Fenris back to Danarius, we cannot be friends. If you have romanced him, and THEN give him back to Danarius, we are mortal enemies. If this hurts you, blame the terrible people who make those kinds of horrid decisions and then put the videos up on Youtube.

He doesn’t remember ever being this sleepy--but then, he doesn’t remember much at all, so he supposes it should not come as a surprise. Still, this bone-deep exhaustion, making his shoulders creak and his back ache and his legs feel a weird sort of _squashed_ like they’re too long for the flesh that contains them--it seems like the sort of tired one would be only once or twice in their lifetimes. He’d love for nothing more than to stretch, right this moment, try to ease some of that popping feeling of compression--but he daren’t move. Not until he’s called upon.

It is the third day of feasting; it is his third day of standing. He must remain so, remain upright, attentive to the needs of his master’s guests. If he falters, if he so much as moves without the order of a guest or his master’s consent, Danarius will be cross. _Stand, or I will make you stand_ , the magister had threatened. He doesn’t relish the thought; magic makes the lyrium sing, in notes that are enough to shatter glass, bone, shake the flesh apart and coax a reluctant voice to scream in duet. _Stand, or I will make you serve_. Serving wine and water, sweetmeats and breads and fruits to the opulent guests of his master’s household--that is his duty. He is Danarius’ prize, his luxury, and so long as he obeys, that will be his only duty. He hears the sounds of one of the other house slaves being violated on a divan nearby, and suppresses a shudder. Standing, even if for three days without respite, is a kinder fate than to be made available to the appetites of magisters. That slave, of low birth and lower value, is like to be bled for the magister’s pleasure before she is done with him. Danarius will hold it nothing more than an additional party expense, already accounted for in his books.

That is the service that Danarius threatens him with, and the threat is enough to make him obey, but he is still jealous of the slaves who are taken and yet live. They are allowed rest, a few hours to sleep and regain what little strength they may; but while they break, the party endures, in true Tevinter fashion, and he must continue to serve those guests who are still awake, eating and drinking and gaming and fucking while their fellows slumber on silk and linen cushions.

But Gods! He is tired, so tired, and hungry besides. Danarius has relented twice, granted him the space of a minute to partake of the leavings of his other guests, and he chewed the pith from the inside of citrus peels and gnawed the hard and crusty heels of bread to try to sate his hunger, drunk a swallow of sour wine to slake his thirst. It is barely enough to sustain him, and his stomach growls loudly. No one is near enough to hear it, and he thanks the gods that it is so.

A man lounges on a nearby bench, draped all over with fine robes irretrievably ruined by the spill and splash of what looks like an entire cask of wine. He lazily raises a hand in the air, beckoning, and calls his name.

“Catulus!”

He moves with a prayer of silent thanks. His legs are stiff, but walking feels good, and he doesn’t allow the disuse to affect his stride. He bends his knees, sinking with sublime grace to the flagstones, and lowers his head. The tray is raised with perfect balance, set atop his shoulders, and he acts the table for the magister as the man selects a cluster of grapes, pushing the bounty aside to aim for the ones he deems freshest. It takes some time, and he savours the stretch in his joints, the counterbalance to the stiffness of endless standing.

When he is dismissed, he returns to his post, once again not-quite blending in with the dusky brick wall, gratified for the break, however brief it may have been. He gently rearranges the fruits on the tray, repairing the aesthetic damage the drunken magister had wrought, then stills. He tunes his senses to the noise around him, carefully ignoring conversations being held and waiting for the sound of his name. The party is winding down; more and more he has seen guests stumble from the mansion, praising Danarius and promising to return once they’ve slept off their indulgences. He hopes it may only be a few hours more before he, too, is allowed to retire. Perhaps ten; he thinks he could make it that long.

He barely stifles a yawn, his teeth clenching hard enough to crack to keep his mouth from opening. The brief walk and kneel has helped his legs, but there is still a stiffness between his shoulder blades that he would give anything to relieve, and the weight of the tray between his hands isn’t helping. He concentrates instead on his breathing, inhaling deeply and trying to ignore the stink of sour wine and sweat and sex that permeates the air. A count of ten, slowly, then a controlled release. He doesn’t know who taught him to breathe this way, but it’s meditative, restorative, almost trance like. Every breath grants him another minute of endurance, he thinks, exhaling in a slow, controlled whisper; the movement of his lungs shifts his shoulders, and it’s nearly enough to relieve the tension. He breathes in again, and his eyes seek out a focal point across the room.

It is a trick he knows, though he doesn’t recall the learning of it--to remain still and steady, silent and unobtrusive, find an unchanging spot before your eyes, and withdraw your entire sense into the place. A _drushti_ , he thinks, the word a delicate novelty in his mind, so unfamiliar. There is much here to draw the eye, but few things that he wishes to gaze upon for any length of time; he raises his gaze to the wall opposite, instead, and a flutter of colour against the sandy stone catches his eye.

It is a strange trophy, he has always thought; all things mounted on Danarius’ wall are trophies of a sort, won from friends and enemies alike and displayed as further evidence of his power, further stroking to an ego that requires no such thing. Tapestries and pieces of fine art, the skins of beasts and men; these are the adornments he is accustomed to. This single scrap of cloth, however, doesn’t fit with the rest; and yet Danarius has mounted it in a place of honour. He has never spent any long time gazing at it; he does not know if the deep wine colour is the dye of the fabric, or the stain of spilled blood. It has never caused him any great degree of concern, one way or the other, only an idle curiousity to which he can afford to pay no mind. Danarius has no patience for curiousity in slaves.

The scrap flutters again in the cool evening breeze, and Catulus lets his eyes relax, gazing impassively at the tattered fabric. The focus and his own stillness give him a sense of peace, and he doesn’t spare a thought to wonder why peace should feel so sad.

 

 


End file.
